


if you need someone to hold

by iwasfollowingyou



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: (it's not explicit but my roman IS trans thank you <3), Canon-adjacent, Developing Relationship, Dialogue Light, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Pining, Roman Roy is Gay, Secret Relationship, Stewy Hosseini is secretly a huge softie, Touch-Starved, Touching, Trans Character, Trust Issues, stewy hosseini is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29025225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwasfollowingyou/pseuds/iwasfollowingyou
Summary: Roman Roy hates being touched.Well, not entirely. It’s more like there are two Romans: one that can’t stand being touched, and one that can’t get enough of it.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	if you need someone to hold

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song "visitor" by wet, which was written specifically for stewy and roman

Roman Roy hates being touched. 

Well, not entirely. It’s more like there are two Romans: one that can’t stand being touched, and one that can’t get enough of it. 

The second Roman is the one that keeps ending up in Stewy’s bed. (“Ending up,” as if the whole thing is a coincidence, as if it just keeps _happening_ for some reason that Stewy can’t figure out). The second Roman is the one that falls apart so easily under his hands, that whimpers and whines and breathes out Stewy’s name, the word cascading from his lips as if it’s sacred. The second Roman is the one that _grabs_ , that grips onto Stewy’s biceps so tightly that bruises blossom by the time Stewy wakes up the next morning; the one that reaches for Stewy’s wrist to guide his hand where he wants it; the one that lets out soft moans when Stewy lightly scratches his hips; the one that closes his eyes and leans his head into Stewy’s palm when Stewy caresses his jaw.

The second Roman stays around for as long as it takes to get him off, and then it’s like a flip is switched; the first Roman, the one that can’t stand to be touched, reemerges and hides himself under the sheets on the other side of the bed, so close to the edge that he’s a breath away from hitting the floor. 

The first Roman is the one that flinches when Stewy reaches towards him; the one that refuses to let Stewy hold him after they’ve both come; the one that carefully moves a few inches away when Stewy is sitting too close to him on the couch.

There are two Romans, and Stewy finds himself desperately trying to build a bridge between them.

Stewy learns that Roman trusts in increments, the increase so subtle that it’s easy to miss unless you’re looking for it. The first sign he notices is the first night that Roman stays over, curls into a ball on the other side of the mattress and lets himself fall asleep, still dressed in a ruined pair of boxers and a shirt that Stewy accidentally ripped a button off of. Stewy doesn’t sleep that night; he lies awake and stares at the ceiling and flinches every time Roman moves, worried that he’s going to get up and drag himself home at four in the morning just so that he doesn’t have to wake up next to Stewy.

Stewy makes him coffee that morning. The steaming mug stays on the counter as the door slams shut behind Roman. The next time he comes over, he doesn’t stay the night. The time after that, he does. Stewy doesn’t make coffee that morning. Roman sticks around long enough to shower before leaving.

Stewy pretends not to notice the little things. He’s all too aware that if he were to point them out, that if he were to make even the subtlest implication that Roman is warming up to him, Roman would withdraw completely, and they would be back to square one—or worse. So he stays quiet. He doesn’t make a comment the first time Roman puts on one of his t-shirts, even though it makes his face flush and his chest warm. Roman does it nonchalantly, but Stewy can read the tension in his shoulders that shows his discomfort as clearly as him saying it out loud. Roman pulls the shirt—an old Harvard one, the maroon seal on the front so faded it’s almost gone—over his head and slides back into bed. It hangs slightly loose over his body. There’s a hickey on his collarbone, just visible when he rolls over to grab his phone off of the nightstand.

Stewy doesn’t reach out to touch him, but he thinks that Roman wearing his shirt comes close enough to it.

After that, it becomes routine. Whenever Roman spends the night (which ends up being most of the time. Stewy doesn’t comment on it.), he puts on an old, faded t-shirt and crawls under the covers, his back to Stewy as he drifts off, fidgeting and mumbling until his breath evens out and he falls silent.

It takes all of Stewy’s willpower not to put a hand on his hip and pull Roman into him. 

He gives Roman the space he needs, obeys the invisible boundaries that Roman draws between them. He learns how to tell when the switch flips, when Roman goes from bucking into Stewy’s hand and grabbing at his arms to curling in on himself and drawing back. He learns not to kiss Roman until Roman starts reaching out towards him, silently asking to be touched; he learns not to kiss Roman after they’re finished. He figures out where to press his lips and where to dig his fingers in and where to avoid completely. He figures out how Roman likes to be— _needs_ to be—touched, how his moans change ever so slightly, how his breath hitches when Stewy curls his fingers just the right way, how he whimpers out a _please_ or a _yeah_ when Stewy asks him, _Right there?_

He thinks that Roman is learning, too. He thinks that Roman is learning that Stewy isn’t going to pull away from him unless he pulls away first. He thinks that Roman is learning that he can take whatever he wants, that Stewy is willing to give him anything and everything if he just says the word, that if he wants to keep Stewy’s hands on him for the entire night, Stewy will never say no. 

Stewy likes to think that he’s a pretty intelligent person. But there’s nothing smart about the way he acts around Roman; he’s never felt as stupid as he does as when he realizes that he would do anything that Roman wants. 

Suddenly—or maybe not so suddenly, maybe it’s been slowly happening over the course of several months, and he just never noticed it until now—he cares less about the money than he does about making Roman smile. He drags himself to Waystar once a week, not to antagonize Logan (though that’s a nice bonus), but to catch Roman off guard in an office and ask him softly, “How are you doing?” and to gently poke and prod at him until he rolls his eyes and punches Stewy in the arm. 

He catches Roman’s eye across conference tables and offers him tiny smiles, sly winks that always trigger a death glare and an exasperated shake of the head. He trails his gaze down Roman’s jawline, his throat, across his shoulders, thinks about what lies under his tight button-up. 

If it were the second Roman, the touch-starved Roman, that Stewy encounters at work, he would use that knowledge to take Roman apart with a simple brush of the fingers over the bump of his slim wrist, a touch of a hand to the small of his back as he slips behind him to get around to the other side of the table. But this isn’t that Roman, and so Stewy keeps his hands to himself, fidgeting with his watch and his pen to keep his fingers occupied.

They dance around each other, neither ever quite sure of where they stand. They’ve come far enough now that Roman will acknowledge him, but that’s about it. Stewy stays carefully behind the boundaries, mindful of the difference between the Roman that he knows—the Roman that no one else is aware of—and the Roman that shows up at Waystar. It’s the Waystar Roman that Stewy wishes he had nothing to do with. For the most part, he pretends that Waystar Roman isn’t real; he tries to convince himself that the real Roman is the one who tumbles into Stewy’s bed, the one who can never get enough of Stewy’s hands on him. Stewy focuses on that Roman, on figuring out how to bridge the gap between the Roman who glares at him at work and flinches away from his hands and the Roman that he really knows, the Roman he wishes he could have all the time.

In the end, Roman doesn’t so much cross the bridge as launch himself across the ravine. 

He lets himself into Stewy’s apartment, the way he has been for a few weeks at this point. (“I don’t want to keep buzzing you in, dude,” Stewy had told him, masking his true intentions with an exasperated tone. “Just take the key.” And Roman had scoffed, “Fine,” but Stewy hadn’t missed the slight gleam in his eye as he turned away). Stewy is sprawled on the couch, one socked foot on the floor and one resting on the coffee table, phone in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. He looks up when the door slams shut and adjusts his glasses with the hand that’s holding the phone. 

“I didn’t think you were co—” He’s cut off by Roman flopping directly on top of him. Stewy lets out a soft grunt and carefully maneuvers his mug out of the way, silently thankful for the fact that Roman didn’t send the tea flying everywhere. He reaches out to set it down on the table and drops his phone onto the cushion. “Rome?”

Roman is silent, save for soft breathing. He’s got his face hidden, tucked into Stewy’s chest, so Stewy can’t read his expression. He grabs at Stewy’s sweater, clenching the fabric in his fist.

“Rome,” Stewy says again, quieter. “Hey.”

There’s a muffled noise. Roman’s body shifts, his leg slotting between Stewy’s and his arm wedging between Stewy’s side and the back of the couch. 

_Okay,_ Stewy thinks. _Okay._

Slowly, carefully, he lets his arm rest across Roman’s back. He’s still dressed for work, in a button down and jacket. His belt buckle digs into Stewy’s thigh. His hair is still in place, slicked back with way more gel than he needs, which always stops Stewy from running his fingers through it the way he wants to. 

He wraps his other arm around Roman, and Roman makes a quiet whimpering noise. He shifts against Stewy as if he’s trying to get closer. His grip on Stewy’s sweater tightens. Stewy tightens his arms in response.

They’re both quiet. Roman’s breathing keeps speeding up, then slowing down, then speeding up again, as if he’s trying to recover from running a race and can’t seem to get his lungs to work the way he needs to. But he doesn’t lift his head off of Stewy’s chest.

Stewy’s hand starts moving on Roman’s back, his palm rubbing circles between Roman’s shoulder blades. Roman all but melts, his body relaxing and falling even deeper into Stewy’s. His fist loosens—still holding onto Stewy, but his knuckles are no longer white. Stewy switches the movement of his hand, massaging up and down Roman’s spine, then across his shoulders, then firmly pressing against the small of his back. 

Roman squirms slightly against him, but not as if he’s trying to get away. It’s like he’s trying to get closer, like if he presses himself against Stewy hard enough, he’ll be able to force himself inside Stewy’s chest.

Roman falls asleep. He relaxes against Stewy, hand dropping onto the cushion, head turning to the side so his unconscious body can still get air into its lungs. His face is scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed like he’s having an argument in his dream, lips moving almost imperceptibly. Stewy lifts his hand from Roman’s back and slides his fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Roman shifts at the touch but doesn’t wake up.

When he wakes up, they don’t talk about it. Roman silently lifts himself up off of Stewy’s chest and straightens out his shirt, but no amount of tugging is going to get rid of the wrinkles. There are red lines across his cheek, the pattern of the knit of Stewy’s sweater pressed into his skin. Roman rubs the sleep out of his eyes and shakes his head like he’s clearing cobwebs. Stewy sits up, shaking out his arms and stretching his legs out.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says playfully, tone light. Roman makes a face.

“You got any food?” Roman asks, his voice rough with sleep.

Stewy nods and stands up. Roman trails at his heels as he heads to the kitchen.

Later that night, Roman doesn’t shift away as soon as he’s finished. He lays on his back next to Stewy, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. There are bite marks on Stewy’s shoulders, one on his hand from when he tried to shush Roman and Roman had snapped before taking Stewy’s fingers between his lips. Stewy’s back is sore, skin stinging where Roman had dragged his fingernails. He’s sitting up still, not yet recovered enough to move out of the position that Roman had last had him in. 

Roman’s pupils are blown when he looks at Stewy. Stewy thinks he sees the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. There’s a beat of silence before Roman reaches out for Stewy’s wrist. 

Stewy swallows down a noise of surprise. Roman turns onto his side, guiding Stewy’s hand to his hip. Stewy holds it there, not daring to move. Roman shifts and takes a deep breath in. Stewy lets one out. 

The room is silent save for the hum of the heating. Stewy can hear his own heart pounding. 

“What the fuck are you so fucking tense for?” Roman asks, and his voice has a slight edge to it, something to mask the fear that Stewy knows is just beneath the surface. “Just fucking lay down, Hosseini.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stewy says. 

“Fucking weirdo,” Roman mutters. 

Stewy carefully lays down, keeping a few inches of space between his chest and Roman’s back. His hand is burning on Roman’s hip. 

“Stewy.” Roman’s voice is soft. 

“Yeah.” 

“Just—you can—” He cuts himself off, opting to show instead of tell. He shifts back towards Stewy, grabs Stewy’s wrist again and pulls his hand around so that it rests on his stomach. Stewy can feel him breathing. 

“Okay,” Stewy says stupidly. 

“Okay,” Roman echoes. 

He leaves in the morning, and Stewy is thinking that they’ve taken two steps forward and one step back, because Roman barely mumbles a _goodbye_ , doesn’t even look at the coffee as he heads out the door. But it’s still a step forward, at least. 

The next time Stewy shows up at Waystar, Roman’s gaze is a little less guarded when he looks at him, his voice a little less icy when he tells him to fuck off.

The next time Roman ends up in his bed, there’s a little less hesitation in his movements when he tucks himself back against Stewy, a less noticeable flinch when Stewy wraps an arm securely around his waist, only a soft noise of surprise instead of an insult when Stewy’s lips graze the back of his neck.

Roman starts to not only accept touch but to seek it out, to sit a little closer to Stewy on the couch, to lean into him when they’re standing in the elevator on the way up to Stewy’s apartment, to come up behind Stewy and wrap his arms around his waist while Stewy is making coffee in the morning. He starts to cling to Stewy after they fuck, not just trying to get Stewy closer or deeper or to convince him to go faster, but just so that Stewy holds him against his warm chest while Roman drifts off in post-orgasm bliss.

Stewy never mentions it. But he notices. And whether it’s a conscious choice on Roman’s part—whether he even knows what he’s doing, whether he has to hype himself up to press closer to Stewy’s side in bed—or whether it’s completely subconscious, Stewy is silently grateful.

Roman trusts in increments, opens himself up in small steps, and Stewy waits patiently for each one, ready to hold out a hand and keep Roman steady as he makes his way closer and closer, never pulling, only holding onto him. 

There are still two Romans, but Stewy can take care of them both.

**Author's Note:**

> i really ended up liking this one so i hope you did too. leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed it and come say hi on tumblr @vaguelyprophetic


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